Wounds chapter 2: Enter the Femme

“You don’t look so good.”

The voice came from behind him- sweet like honey, but thick, creamy. Trouble.

“It’s been a rough day. I’m dying.”

It’s like she crawls into the seat next to him, moving on shadows, a snake through the air.

“Dying? Can I see it?”

He watches her eyes. Nothing but serious. He pulls open his jacket and unbuttons his shirt. The hole looks like it’s gasping for air, bubbling blood.

“May I?”

Her fingers, cold and slender, move over his skin. Her eyes darken into a more beautiful shade (if that’s even possible with her) as the tips dip into blood.

“It looks serious.”

“Deadly serious.”

“How did it happen?”

“It just did.”

“We’ll reach the hospital in one hour. You hold on for that long, buddy?”

“I’ll do the best I can.”

“I’ll give you your gun when you get off. But the doctors might take it from you. Maybe you should hide it- down in your sock or something. I don’t trust those doctors.”

“Oh, he’ll be fine until we get there. He has me.”

That honeyed voice. Dreamlike. Definitely trouble.

“So you carry a gun? You a cop?”

“Was. Private now.”

“I bet you’re fantastic at keeping things private.”

He can actually feel her words licking warm against his ear and neck.

“Grant a dying man’s last wish?”

“I’m a genie, baby, all you have to do is rub.”

He’s surprised how much strength he still has as his arm circles her tiny waist pulling her in hard. His eyes search for some king of protest, but she smiles and finishes his move, pushing her lips hard against his.

If he had died right then he wouldn’t have cared with her mouth on his, her body moving against him.

Her tongue pushes into his mouth. He lets a small growl escape and blood swells in his mouth. He coughs, chokes. She smiles as blood trickles from between their mouths.

She pulls away, her tongue dancing with a string of red.

Her hand moves into her small bag and delicately wipes her mouth and chin with a white handkerchief.

As she touches up her lipstick she asks in that honeyed voice:

“So what brings you to my little lost town?”


“What kind of work?”

He starts to button his shirt, suddenly embarrassed by his wound.

“Private work.”

For a man who just spilled his heart into my mouth, you’re not very forthcoming with details.”

He sighs, his mouth filling with blood. He spits it on the floor by their feet.

“Divorce case. Nothing special. Nothing exciting. Nothing dangerous.”

Not dangerous?” She pushes her finger under her shirt and into his stomach. “This must be the sign of perfect health and safety then.”

She laughs. The first time he hears her laugh. It’s like music, but cold, lifeless. A programmed laugh.

“It just happened.”

“Oh, of course. People just start randomly bleeding in this town. I forgot. It’s on all the postcards.”


About litbandit

El Bandito Bibliotequa...or something.
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